


Wayward

by apparentlytaboo



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Father (Duo) Maxwell, Hunter!Catherine, Hunter!Trowa, M/M, Monsters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25540801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apparentlytaboo/pseuds/apparentlytaboo
Summary: Trowa and the Bloom family are in the business of hunting things, saving people. Recent mauling deaths draw them to a small town to exterminate a werewolf, but this hunt may not be as simple as it seems. Together, they work to uncover the secrets shrouding the town in darkness before more lives are lost.As if the situation isn't bad enough, Trowa can't seem to keep himself from getting drawn deeper into his infatuation with the mysterious young man at the middle of it all.
Relationships: Trowa Barton/Duo Maxwell
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *Rated E for later chapters.

My first day in Bedford is no different from the hundred firsts proceeding it. Just a strange young man, in an equally strange town, wearing the face I am told to wear. One small blessing, I didn’t have to hitchhike past the city limits this time: a perk of taking the job as a family.

“Don’t look so glum, Trowa.” Catherine comes up beside me, fussing over the lapels of my worn jacket just like a concerned sister might before her brother’s first day at a new school. “Bedford’s not so bad, as small towns go. Who knows” here her voice drops to a bare whisper, clearly trying to fly beneath her father’s notice, “maybe we’ll get to have some fun this time.” Punctuated with a playful wink before she punches me on the shoulder and spins away in the direction of her first class.

As much as I appreciate her joviality, I can’t summon the same lighthearted spirit in myself. I spare one final glance over my shoulder, paste on my best ‘love you, Dad!’ smile for Mr. Bloom, waving at us from the curb. The twinkle in his eye is real, watching his bright little girl twirl away into the crowd, no doubt about to charm her way right into the hearts of her classmates. Catherine never has any trouble making fast friends. The smile drops once she bounces out of sight, the same shadows I’ve grown familiar with casting themselves over his features as he turns to regard just me.

No matter how normal Bedford might seem on the surface, it is far from safe. Recently, the town has been plagued by a string of strange deaths; the cause of which we have come to determine and, hopefully, exterminate. Mr. Bloom dips his chin towards me, the solemn nod of a general sending his troops to battle. I nod back, turning towards the greying brick of the old schoolhouse with indifference.

***

“Anything unusual at the school?”

Catherine’s “Jesus dad, give us a minute to put our bags down would’ya?” over my dead-pan “Completely normal, Mr. Bloom.” He appreciates both answers, one for its joviality, the other for providing the information he seeks. His face, worn looking in a way no forty-year-old’s has any right to be, comes into view down the long hall of our old, newly rented home, one rough hand scrubbing his face.

“Yeah I was afraid of that. I got nothing from the mill either.”

“Oh god, look at you gloomy-gusses! There’s got to be a connection here, three’s a pattern, boys! We just need to find it.” The glee in her voice is unsurprisingly insuppressible, and I look away from the tender smile slicing across Mr. Bloom’s rough face, go to clean up and find out whether anything edible is lurking in the kitchen.

***

The week passes in a blur of mundane humdrum, just two new students (one unremarkable, the other blinding) and a mill man grinding through their blue-collar lives. We are nearing the end of the lunar cycle, and just starting to think our target might have skipped town when it comes for me.

Catherine somehow manages to make friends every place we go. Which in and of itself has never surprised me: she’s fantastic. Kind, open-hearted, energetic, outgoing. Pretty in a classic, corn-fed midwestern sort of way (at least for this role). What _does_ baffle me is the fact that she always _wants_ to. No matter how many towns we blow through, no matter how fast, she stays the same bright flower she always has been. Collecting hearts and friendships she will carry with her wherever the winds blow us to next. It was something I simultaneously envied and loathed: my own heart clings too tightly. I had never quite learned how to care for something anything less than whole-heartedly. To get close to someone knowing I will soon have to leave and face the pain of severing those bonds… it is anathema to me.

As this is shaping up to be no different than any other small town, Ms. Bloom has no shortage of local attention and has been wrapped up by her new friends for a night out on the town (shopping on main street, dinner at the local diner) and I, the laconic and mightily disappointing older brother, am walking myself home in peace.

Besides being small, Bedford is boring. The kind for boring that seems to attract our particular brand of attention more and more often these days. I scuff my faded Chuck Taylors on the sidewalk, kick stones between the streetlamps, and contemplate pulling out my headphones. I almost have myself convinced it’s worth the risk of degrading my hearing after a solid five days of uninterrupted Pleasantville when a scream splits the humid evening air.

Lightning rocks through my nerves on the tails of an adrenaline spike and I tear off in the direction of the rapidly fading sound, pelting down the vacant street lined with overgrown trees and sparse lighting. The buildings here are old and residential, succumbing slowly to the tender mercies of mother nature; not well kempt, shadows laying claim to most of the nightscape around me.

The cry dies off as suddenly as it had come on, and I am nearer now than I had been to the source, but I can’t be sure exactly where it had come from. I skid to a stop on the cracked concrete, reaching down to close my fingers securely around the well-worn handle of my silver knife. The other I raise in a rough blocking position to shield my face, spinning on my heel in a slow circle, scouring the still night for any sign of movement…

The crackling of dry autumn leaves and scrub comes from behind me, and I spin to face the empty dark of a wide yard. The grass here stretches from an unlit home to a thick grove of trees, deep shadows pitch black beneath the shelter of their boughs. I squint into the inky darkness, begging my human eyes to pick up any sign of movement, straining all my senses… there! A figure peeking out from behind a thick trunk. I draw in a breath to call out to them, lowering the knife to show that I am not a threat, and then the world suddenly tilts on its axis. A heavy force barrels into me from the side and plows our combined weight into the grass, breaking through a low picket fence on the way down.

The creature’s snarling and snapping, teeth and claws and graveyard breath washing over me along with the deafening clash of snapping jaws, just inches from my face. I try to twist my shoulder free, cursing myself for letting my guard down, trying desperately to bring the blade up into the underbelly of the beast. A heavy “paw” lands on my forearm, crushing my hand into the ground and slicing through the thick fabric of my jacket, pinning the blade uselessly into the dirt.

It would be oddly fitting for me, to die splayed out in some unknown lot in a might-as-well-be-nameless town. The deservingly meaningless end to a nameless life… Here when my outlook is the bleakest, I feel myself grow calm. If I just give in… no more pretending. It would just be… over. _I_ would be over. There’s no white light waiting at the end of a tunnel for Trowa Barton. No choir of angels, no pearly gates. Just blackness.

In the back of my mind, a voice is screaming for attention. Yelling for me to fight, _live_ , what about that boy in the trees? Am I just going to let the beast get him next? Which are all _very good points_ , but the voice is being muffled, sounds like it’s coming from the end of a long corridor stuffed with cotton. Giving up would be so much easier than fighting…

With a final deep breath of wet loam and fresh torn grass and unholy rot, I relax, willing the beast to be quick…

“Hey!!” A shout reverberates off the faded white walls of the dilapidated house, sharp boot falls following close behind, and the thing… pauses. My vision swims slowly back into focus (when had it faded out?!) to find myself staring into the eyes of the beast. An unnatural milky white, like wet old bone. One frozen heartbeat passes as we regard each other over its gaping maw of fangs… and then it is gone. With a powerful leap that leaves deep tears in my arm and the breath blown from my chest, the creature launches itself away into the shadows, just as my unlikely rescuer comes sprinting into view.

As soon as the beast’s eyes leave mine my head starts to clear and with the return of rational thought comes a strong and sudden nausea. So close… I had been _so close_ to just letting that thing kill me. For a moment I had even _wanted it to_. No wonder the victims hadn’t put up a fight, even as they were torn to shreds…

My manic reverie cuts short when a hand lands hard on my shoulder, my body twists instinctively away from the threat, knife coming up between us on autopilot well before I register that this is the man who has (somehow) driven away the beast.

“Hey man,” he has both hands splayed in front of him in a non-threatening gesture, hovering there like he would like to reach out but doesn’t quite want to risk getting sliced. He is around my age (shorter than I am, hard to tell by how much from our positions), with a heart-shaped face and wild bangs. His eyes are the most striking thing about him, however; a blue so deep and vivid it seems to be almost violet.

I don’t know how long I spend staring into them like an idiot before he speaks again, but the pause is longer than it probably should be. He just smiles, which is… _beautiful_ , a small part of my mind acknowledges, the rest trying to break me out of the second hypnosis I’ve suffered in as many minutes. “Are you alright? Hey, put the damn knife down. The dog’s gone, and I’m not here to hurt ya.”

“Sorry, sorry.” I lower the blade, glaring at my hand as it shakes on the way down. I’m on my ass in the wet leaves, leaning on my left hand to keep me upright, and I settle for resting the knife in my lap. Like hell am I going to let go of it after that fiasco, concerned civilian present or no. I’m eyeing the tree line again warily when he laughs, and I snap my attention back to him, startled.

“Why are you? Don’t _apologize_ , jeez. You were just attacked; I think you’re allowed to be jumpy.” He’s splitting his own attention between me and the trees himself, obviously not as unconcerned by the danger as his bright demeanor portrays. Above the bright smile his eyes are hard. “Are you hurt anywhere other than your arm?” He asks, pointing to where I have it laying across my legs. I spare a glance down myself and as I take in the gashes gently bleeding onto my jeans I wince, the pain hitting me all at once, like it only just remembered it was supposed to be there and needs to make up for the lapse. “Yeah, thought that might be smarting.” He sounds amused at my reaction, concerned at the pain, reaches out again despite the blood and dirt and my knife and grabs two fistfuls of jacket. The man hauls me to my feet with surprising ease, steadying me with his fists against my chest, shifts to wrap my upper arms in a tight grip when I wobble slightly.

I shift my weight to get my balance back and he lets his hands drop to his sides, trying to stay non-threatening, and I take a shaky step back, pausing as I get a good look at him. He’s handsome, all broad shoulders and narrow hips, dark clothing cutting a striking figure under the streetlamps, and I am completely unprepared to handle any of it. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m not too keen on standing around outside with wild dogs runnin’ around. Especially not with you bleeding.”

“They’re dogs, not sharks.” My mouth is on autopilot and appears to be stuck on snark. Fantastic. He just laughs again, thankfully, and steps back onto the sidewalk, gesturing for me to follow. I hesitate, glancing back at the trees. This is the closest we’ve come to a break for an entire week, our first concrete proof of a monster and I hate the idea of letting it just slip away again. In reality, the beast is probably long gone by now, and me running after it alone and injured is about the worst course of action I could take at the moment. Besides which, the thing had only fled because this man showed up.

The other victims had all been alone, which might mean the thing had run off simply because we had an audience. Might.

Or, it could mean that this mystery man was in some way connected to it. In which case…

“You’re new to town, with the family that just moved in, right?” It seems he is interpreting my hesitation as being wary of a stranger, despite my being half a head taller and armed. I go with it, like a normal shaken person probably would. I nod. “Cool. Well look. You don’t know me from Adam but I’m sure as shit not letting you walk home alone after this, and personally I’d prefer you got that arm washed up sooner rather than later.” He steps back up to me, hand extended. “I’m Duo. Maxwell. Grew up in this town, just come back from school a few months back. Not a serial killer, cross my heart.” And he does, with big goofy swipes of his left hand, sporting that cherubic (and somehow still mischievous) smile the entire time and I feel a new type of fear trip down my spine.

I take his hand anyway, grip firm, my fingers wrapping around his palm. They fit together perfectly. “Trevor Benton,” I tell him, the lie leaving a sour taste in my mouth.

***

Duo lives alone in a small house next to the local church, one of the oldest buildings in Bedford. It’s modest, in every sense of the word. From the sparse, second-hand furniture to the bare bulb lighting, it sports a weird combination of minimalism and thrift that somehow feels welcoming and warm. He shrugs his black jacket off at the entry way, freeing a thick rope of braided hair that trails down past his hips. Chucking it onto a coat rack, he rucks the sleeves of his red shirt up to reveal muscular forearms as he turns back to help me manhandle my jacket off without aggravating the gashes too much. It still burns like hell where the rough fabric clings to the clotting blood, and I’m almost glad for the pain. It gives me something to focus on other than his proximity. He hisses in sympathy, slings the garment over his arm when it slides free and turns towards an open doorway, waving for me to follow him, long braid swaying in his wake.

I take a moment to compose myself, contemplate the entry way and briefly consider bolting back through the unlatched door. In the end, I follow, keeping my boots on as he had done, and we end up in a small brightly lit kitchen. Duo’s got the sleeve of my jacket under the tap, scrubbing at the sleeve. He points “here’s the sink, feel free to dig in. I’ma go grab you some clean towels, see what I can do for antiseptic and wrappings. Be right back.” I manage a nod for him, grateful my quiet doesn’t seem to bother him too much, because I don’t quite trust myself with words at the moment.

The last dredges of adrenaline are well and truly leaving me, and my arm is on fire. Plunging it into water is about the last thing I want to do right now, but it’s what needs to be done. So, I run the tap, check the temperature, and grit my teeth into the blazing sting as I thrust it under the tepid flow.

As the flare settles back down to a more tolerable level of pain, I open my eyes to find towels next to my arm, a half full bottle of isopropyl and some stick-on stiches. Duo’s looking over my shoulder, his face an interesting mix of morbid curiosity and sympathetic wince. He catches my eye and does a comical grimace, and it takes my mind off the sting for just a moment. Surprisingly, he’s still just as attractive, even when pulling a face like that. This is so not fair.

“Do you know what you’re doing with those, or do you need help?” he sounds like he hopes it’s the former, but I get the feeling he’d help if I asked him. Part of me is tempted to find out. Wonders how gentle those strong hands could be, what they would feel like running over my skin as he cleaned and bandaged. I realize I’ve bitten my check when I begin to taste copper, and it’s enough to help me make the smart choice and leave that particular can of worms unopened.

“No, I’ve got it. Thank you.” He looks relieved, the tiny glimmer of disappointment in his eyes nothing more than my imagination still trying to sucker me into being stupid. I look back at the towels, trying to banish the spell that tries to ensnare me each time I look his way. “These are going to get ruined, you sure you want me to…?” he cuts me off with a grunt and waive of his hand, a clear “use the damn towels, dumbass” gesture. I shrug and turn to it.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it) I am very proficient at cleaning my own wounds. The minutes that pass are filled with my occasional sharp intakes of breath and the background noise of Duo puttering around the small kitchen behind me, going in and out of cabinets, reaching past me to fill a carafe with water at one point, leaning close enough for me to feel the heat of his and sending my heartbeat racing into the triple digits.

At the end of the day, I am lucky enough to have walked away with just three deep cuts, the longest starting a few inches below my elbow and shallowing out on the back of hand, the other two running about half as long. The stickers keep the deepest one closed all right, and a tight towel wrapped around the whole mess will hopefully be enough to stop the fresh bleeding. Duo gestures for me to sit down at one of the plastic chairs pulled up to a folding table and asks me how I take my coffee.

I manage to talk him out of calling the Sheriff, but he insists on placing a call to the ‘Benton’ residence while I finish tying everything off, and I can only imagine the look on Mr. Bloom’s face when he picks up, hears the truncated story. None the less, he tells Duo he’s grabbing his keys and heading right over, and the two of us settle in to wait.

By the time we’re both seated with a steaming mug my head has cleared enough to see just how lucky I am to have escaped with nothing more than a torn-up hand. I was lucky to have escaped at all. If not for Duo, I’d be another bloody corpse for the authorities to clean up. As much as I want to let things be exactly what they seem: Duo showing up at the right place and the right time, kind enough to help a random stranger, invite me back to his home… Well. No matter how much I want to, taking things at face value just isn’t in the job description, and this is an opportunity I can’t afford to pass up.

“Thank you.” He looks over at me from where he’d been staring at the peeling edge of a sheet of wallpaper, surprised. Then he looks at me like maybe I hit my head, then frowns at me, as if he’s offended, and suddenly I’m the one on wrong foot.

“You’re welcome.” He says slowly… and I realize he doesn’t think he’s done anything special. Nothing more than what _should_ to be done. What anyone would have. It’s the kind of faith in humanity that people seem to think is common place until you put them in the fire, and find out that there’s only a small part of the population who will actually stand up and do what’s right. A small group to which Duo clearly belongs. I tell him so, not in so many words, and his face goes a bit sad. Enough to make me regret saying anything. “Yeah, well, it should be the kind of thing you can expect from people. For the most part, in this town folks still have enough common decency to keep each other out of trouble.”

For the most part.

“You didn’t seem too surprised to see that dog.” It is in times like these where being laconic has its shining moments. I have a knack for being able to grit past ridiculous things with a straight face, like referring to the monstrous aberration we had encountered as a mere ‘ _dog_.’

“You mean Kujo? Yeah, no. Unfortunately, it’s not a big shock, though I hadn’t seen the thing myself before tonight. C’mon, y’all must have heard rumors by now of what’s been happening around here, even if you missed it in the news.” He scours my face for any sign of recognition. I keep it placid, mildly interested, nothing more. His eyes crinkle in a way that might speak of suspicion, but he doesn’t comment, except to tell me about the ‘dogs.’

“Three people now have been mauled to death by what the authorities swear upside down and sidewise is a huge canine. Not ‘domestic animal ran into the wild’ huge, I mean like mutated love child of a Doberman and grizzly type huge.” The way he leans into it is telling, I’ve seen it before. Just a bit too invested, too skeptical of the official story to buy in completely. As if he had seen the damage this thing could do firsthand and the explanation he was given just didn’t measure up to the magnitude of the destruction.

Duo had seen the direct aftermath of at least one of the attacks, I was sure of it.

“Weird thing is, far as anyone can tell there’s no sign of struggle.” He’s back to staring me down. It feels like he’s trying to pry my forehead open and read my thoughts. Too curious for my comfort. “To be honest, I didn’t believe it until I saw you tonight.”

“You didn’t believe… what, exactly?”

“First of all, that grizzly bear dogs were roaming around the woods. All the authorities and local boys we’ve got have been out there most nights tromping through the woods, scouring every inch, and we know the area. These are _our_ woods. Most of us grew up playing in them, if there was a trace of this thing, we would have found it. But there’s _nothing_.”

He turns to face me head on, setting down his coffee mug and leaning forward over the plastic, staring me down, daring me to refute his claim. I hold his eyes, genuine interest getting the better of me a bit as and I lean forward to match his stance, our arms braced on the table between us.

“The second thing I couldn’t wrap my head around was that if something like this was running around, why the hell would you just let it tear you up? No one in their right mind would be able to resist putting up a fight, futile or not.” I swallow, worried about the direction this conversation is heading. Depending on how he frames the question, it might be tricky to skirt the truth without sounding… well. Insane. Most people don’t believe you when you say things like ‘a giant dog hypnotized me and started talking in my head, and damned if the thing didn’t seem to be making a compelling argument at the time.’

“As soon as you locked eyes, the fight went right out of you.” I discretely let out the breath I’ve been holding, thankful beyond words that he doesn’t outright ask, just lets it hang in the space between us. An opportunity to talk, not quite pressing for the truth. He’s hoping he’s not the only one reading too far into things.

The problem is, I want to tell him. There’s something about the openness of his expression, the honest quality of his eyes, that makes me feel like it would be safe to confide in him. Underneath it is a current of hungry curiosity, the kind bourn of glimpsing something beyond the scope of what is normal, that nags at you to try and peel the veil back just a little bit further. It’s never been quite this hard for me to hold the truth back from someone, but I manage it. When I stay silent, he sighs, sits back in his chair and scrubs his eyes.

“Whatever. Regardless, I’m glad you’re all right. Also glad the fucker took off like that, I wasn’t too sure what I was going to do when I got over to you but I don’t think it would have ended well.” I can’t help but agree. The distraction would have given me an opening to maybe stab the thing, but one or both of us would likely have gotten hurt in the process. That’s assuming the knife I’m packing can even hurt this thing. We came here expecting to hunt _werewolves_ , not giant telepathic dogs. No guarantee that silver would be enough anymore.

“You’re a man of few words, anybody ever tell you that?” His tone of voice takes out any potential sting, and the tilt at the corner of his mouth makes it clear he knows damn well I hear it all the time. Another attempt to lighten the mood, that somehow works despite the dark trails my mind is busy galivanting down. I can’t help it; a small smile twists my lips. Not one of the canned things I practice in the mirror, either. A genuine twist of the lips makes it past my guard, and I duck my head, but he’s already seen it. The starlight twinkle in his eyes is proof enough, like he knows he caught me off guard and is damned pleased with himself for it.

His smile parts again, to tell me what I’ll never know, because the phone receiver starts up a shrill ringing from the wall mount, and Duo excuses himself to answer it.

For the millionth time in this long, short night I am struck by how compelling I find this man, regardless of the suspicion I should be harboring. He stands from the table to reach the receiver in one graceful movement, the red fabric of his shirt stretching tight over wide shoulders and a strong back, and since he’s turned away from me I let my eyes trail after it. The shirt tucks into a plain black belt around slim hips, black slacks just a hair tighter than they maybe ought to be showing off the musculature of his legs, the tight curve of his ass…

He pauses mid-motion, and I glance up to find violet eyes locked on my own over his shoulder. My heart stutter steps through the next few beats, then takes of like a racehorse, heat flooding my cheeks as I am caught dead to rights checking him out. A few thousand panicked thoughts run through my mind, as I contemplate just how badly I’ve screwed things up for us this time (this is, after all, a small rural town and those are not known to be friendly to ‘alternative’ preferences). Then my heart skips another beat because he does not look angry. He raises an eyebrow at me and _smirks._

I swallow down my panic and wonder idly if I should have just sprinted into the woods alone, after all. Maybe its not too late to give it a go.

Then Duo answers the phone, and my wayward thoughts consolidate back onto the job, and the very real and present danger slinking its way through this town.

“Marsha?” Instantly his stance changes, the easy-going relaxation evaporating into stiff muscles and a straight spine. “What’s wrong, hon? Yes, of course I was. No, I didn’t make it over, there was a dog attack and I helped him back to… no.” His velvet voice goes thick with disbelief. The one-sided conversation is maddening as his shoulders bunch, the muscles of his back and forearms clenching with shock. “Oh good Lord, no. Of course. No, no, I understand ma’am, I’ll be right there.” He hangs the phone onto the receiver with shaking hands, runs the fingers of his left through his bangs, lets out a huff and turns to face me.

“There was another attack in town. I’m sorry, Trevor, I’ve got to go.” I make to follow him, and he puts a hand on my shoulder, forces me to stay sitting and I am once again surprised at the strength in his smaller frame. “Hey, no. You’ve dealt with your fair share tonight.”

“I’m not letting you walk around out there alone; you did the same for me.”

“Look, kid,” that stings, “I appreciate the concern, but no. You’re injured, your Pops is on his way over, and you’re gonna sit your ass here an’ wait for ‘im.” He’s moving as he talks, going to grab his coat, flinging his back door open on the cool autumn air. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m driving. You’re welcome in my home. Stay put till your Dad gets here.” With that the door swings shut, and moments later I hear an engine roar to life with an impressive rumble before heading down the gravel drive. I’m left feeling useless, staring at the fading stain of his wooden door.

***

Another murder. No matter how I turn it in my head, I cannot help but feel responsible. I should never have followed Duo back here. If I had just gone after it, maybe whoever it is would still be breathing. Not to mention the potential danger I put him in. Clearly the thing had stuck around, and I’d had no way of knowing it wouldn’t follow me.

Trapped and worried as I am, the restlessness starts to eat at me, and Duo’s home is my only hope at reprieve until the calvary arrives. I get up and make my way slowly around the small space: the kitchen, a living area and two doors that lead to a small bedroom and bathroom, respectively. Nothing remarkable in any of the rooms. Several black suits in the closet, but no hint of evil, no trace of hidden walkways or basements, not even an attic to crawl through. The living area sports a stone hearth for surviving the winter months. On the mantle rests a small handful of mis-matched picture frames.

Duo is easy to recognize; apparently that braid had taken quite a few years to cultivate to its current glory. One tarnished silver square depicts a man and woman, sitting across from each other on a wide blanket strewn with food, two small children playing in the foreground. The next one holds the same two kids, slightly older, each with shoulder length hair, one dark brown, the other closer to blond. In the third Duo has his arm around a man that might have been a brother, with similar features and eyes a lighter hue of crystal blue.

My attention lingers over the last photograph. The man seems almost familiar, like I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t place it. I’m still staring at the other boy’s face when Mr. Bloom’s pickup rumbles to a stop in front of the place, and I go pelting out the door, fling myself into the backseat behind Catherine, and belt out the CliffsNotes version of my evening, starting with the call I’d just over heard.

“Marsha… that’s the name of Winters’ wife. Strap in.” Mr. Bloom puts pedal to metal, tearing down the quiet rural streets, and too soon flashing red and blue lights are dancing on the dash.

We roll by slowly, windows down, Mr. Bloom and Catherine catching the eye of concerned fathers and high schoolers in turn as they go past, stopping in the road to catch the gossip, offer condolences. The story fits right in with the rest, and my stomach rolls.

We’re passing by the house when I catch sight of Duo. He’s on the victim’s front porch, hand on the shoulder of an older woman I assume is Mrs. Winters. He appears to be letting her sob into his jacket, comforting her as the sheriff attempts an interview. Duo looks up as we go by, looks right at the SUV and I feel like he’s looking right at me… though the dark glass and flashing squad car lights make that unlikely. I take a good look at the scene before me, the deep lines of worry drawn on his face, the obvious sympathy for the bereaved. Every inch of him screams genuine and open and caring, just as he had seemed to be with me. The last thing I see is Duo turning back to the officer, a tear track reflecting in the flashing light, then we round the corner and he is out of view.

***

“So, not a werewolf.” Cat sounds supremely put out, and I don’t blame her. “Not just _not_ a werewolf, but totally not something we’ve seen before. Man, no wonder we haven’t found anything! We’ve been chasing the wrong info!” Our little family is gathered around the dinner table, journals, charts, and old books that are one page turn away from falling apart scattered all over the surface.

Despite vociferous complaints, Catherine has been elbow-deep in texts since we got home; we all have. “The lunar cycle ended yesterday, end even if it hadn’t, the thing that attacked Trowa… That’s something else entirely.” Mr. Bloom adds.

A creature that appears as a giant black dog, and those who see it die shortly thereafter. I have had a theory since the yard, nagging at the back of my mind, but I’ve been pouring over the texts trying to find something, anything, to substantiate it, and finally… “I think it’s a Grimm.”

Two pairs of bloodshot eyes swivel towards me; two remarkably identical expressions that clearly state they think I’ve lost my mind. They even raise skeptical eyebrows the same way. “Son, a Grimm’s nothing more than a death omen, not some corporeal thing…” The refute is expected, and I push a tome towards him, open to a specific page of legend.

“A death omen, yes, but a real creature. Left to its own devices, a Grimm simply appears to the nearly deceased, loitering and waiting for them to pass on in order to feed off of their energies before the reaper comes for them. But they’re not spirits.” I point to the specific passage that had caught my attention, the rough hand-written notes of a hunter long since deceased. “With the right knowledge on your side, it is possible to summon and even control them. What really caught my eye was the last sentence. ‘Beware the beasts’ eyes; they bewitch the mind and entice their victim towards an early grave.’”

The room is eerily silent, our attentions each turned inward as we let that sink in. “It doesn’t mention how to kill a Grimm. According to this account, he never found a way. They resorted to severing the bond between the Grimm and the summoner. If this really is what we’re dealing with, it takes heavy spell work, and a permanent altar.”

“If we destroy the altar, we destroy the summoner’s connection. But what will they do once they’re freed? I imagine they won’t be too happy about having been controlled.” Mr. Bloom’s brows are drawn tight, no doubt scouring his memory for any part of the past week that might make more sense with this new information.

“This means we’re after a human.” I look over at the tone in Catherine’s voice. Gone is the playful personality lifting our spirits; she’s morose.

“Most probably. There’s always the possibility of a possession, but omens of a demonic presence would have manifested themselves by now.” None of us likes the idea of going after a human. It could be anyone. It could be someone we have already met. Someone we like. No matter what it means people killing people, which, especially with so many evil things in the world already out to get us, is always depressing.

Monsters are easy to think out. For the most part, they follow strict patterns. Eat the same things, live in the same types of places, can be killed by specific means. Humans are all wild cards, no manual to give us the answers. Which means “we need to find a motive.”

Mr. Bloom broaches the subject that has been on my mind all evening. “You said the thing ran off as soon as that man ran over to you?”

“It did.”

“Yeah but, if he’d sent it after Trowa, why would he call the thing off?” Cat voices the other side of my internal argument. It’s been looping in the back of my mind since the incident, no matter how much I try to suppress it. Duo could have staged the whole thing. Made us as hunters the moment we came to town and tried to paint himself as the innocent bystander to throw us off his trail… but it seems wrong to me. I just hope it’s honest intuition, and not my own feelings skewing my perceptions. Catherine doesn’t want to believe it any more than I do.

I was only a block away from the house of the man who died tonight. The scream I heard was probably his.

“At any rate, he appears to be connected. He was there when I was attacked, he was one of the first people called by the wife of the victim, and he’d seen something before I spoke to him, I’m sure of it. Culprit or not, this mess has something to do with Duo Maxwell.”

***

The only connection between the victims so far, besides living in the town, is their membership to the church. Which really does not narrow anything down, considering the whole town attends, but it’s about all we’ve got. So… here I am. Monkey suit and all, playing happy family for the locals.

We park along the road next to the full lot and walk the rest of the way, right past the spot where I was laid out, bits of broken fence still scattered in the grass. If we’re going to be around a while longer, I really ought to offer to fix it. The yard looks completely different in the daylight, the shadows under the trees transformed from a black abyss to welcoming pools of shade. I scour the tree line anyway, unable to shake off a sense of unease as I walk by.

The church itself had caught fire some months ago, and the locals are still working to get the funds together to fix it up. In the meantime, the parish organized rows of folding chairs in the mid-morning sunshine. I follow along behind Mr. Bloom while he exchanges pleasantries. I shake hands when introduced. I play the gentleman older brother when “Kaitlyn’s” friends come over to say hello. I people watch. I listen.

“So nice that you decided to come!”

“Don’t mind the lawn, the sunshine’s kind of a nice addition, don’t youthink?”

“The church? Yeahno, the whole building is unstable, just waiting until we get enough to”

“Oh you haven’t been before? Just wait till you meet the Father!”

“He’s so young, but his sermons are so stirring, so brave how he stepped up the way he did.”

“Father Maxwell’s the _best;_ you’re in for a treat.”

The name surprises me, and I turn to try and find the source, when a hush falls over the crowd, people taking their seats as a familiar form walks towards the pulpit.

Catherine is stealing glances at my face and stifling giggles into her handkerchief. I try my best to pick my jaw up off the ground and stop staring like a gob-smacked idiot, but… Duo Maxwell is standing at the podium, in a black suit. I hadn’t noticed then that they also sported a priest’s collar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not dead, just struggling. Thank you for your patience!

The sermon itself passes in a blur; my mind too distracted to pay attention to the words. I barely know the man, but already my mind had constructed a solid perception of him based on my impressions from last night. Sunny, sarcastic, strong, young, inquisitive, a man on the cusp of pushing back the blind fold keeping him unaware of the supernatural… a young man who had danced around Trowa in the warm glow of his small kitchen, served him coffee, caught him looking and just _smirked_ about it.

All of that is now overlaid on top of the supposed reality before my eyes. Duo Maxwell, _Reverend_ Maxwell, leading a flock of sheep through the darkness. The man at the pulpit now is the same shape. Wears the same face, with the same smiles exuding the same sun.

I sink further into the folding chair, a migraine leeching into my skull as I strain to mesh the two persons into a coherent image.

Catherine’s laughter has finally simmered down and she passes me a small bottle of advil from her purse, still amused but also concerned.

Mr. Bloom is stone-faced in that way of his that means he’s noticed more than I wish he would, but unlike his daughter at least he won’t mock me for it.

One week in Bedford, and I’ve already managed to gain three new scars and my heart is poised to suffer another. Crushing over a man of the cloth. No way for that to end well.

When the sermon ends, Cat and Mr. Bloom rise to chat with the townsfolk, make their way to the Father, no doubt thank him for saving me and try to wheedle more information from him and the flock at large. Neither of them stops me from slouching back in the creaking plastic. I shut my eyes against the brightness of the sun and try to calm the pulsing pain in my temples through sheer force of will.

Blessedly, people seem content to leave him to wait out the onset of his painkillers in peace.

“Not much of a flashy presentation, I know, but I didn’t think it was bad enough to put people to sleep!” Or not.

My eyes fly open far too fast, the light flooding in and making me wince, despite the figure looming above me, blocking the sun’s direct rays. Duo’s smirk is just as captivating in daylight as it had been i fluorescence. I struggle to sit up straight and gain some form of composure.

“Not asleep, just waiting for the advil to kick in.” Sympathy twists the smirk into something much softer, and infinitely more dangerous for Trowa’s poor squirming heart.

“Arm?”

“Headache.” A small tsk, and then Duo gestures to the chair beside me. “Yea, go ahead.”

He shrugs off the jacket, the smooth black of the dress shirt beneath looking no less sweltering in the heat but he just folds the jacket over his knee as he sits, wipes his brow, turns to regard the small crowd milling before them.

“You looked a bit startled earlier.” Duo glances at him sidelong, whispers like he’s confiding a secret, keeping his eyes on the crowd. I feel my cheeks heat, despite the fact that surprise was perfectly justifiable and there was very little reason to think Duo truly knew why he had been so caught off guard. I’m still struggling to formulate a response when Duo smirks again, fills in the blanks on his own. “Not what most people expect. Kid who looks like he should be in college, you meet him on the street your first thought probably isn’t ‘priest’.”

“No, it wasn’t.” I admit. Duo just smiles.

“How’s the arm doing?” He lifts the bandaged appendage, flexes his fingers for Duo to see the lack of hindrance.

“Fine. Got lucky.” Duo mutters a response under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘no shit.’

“How’s Mrs. Winters?” I ask, both to fill the silence and broach the subject. The sun wilts right out of Duo then, and he instantly regrets bringing it up.

“Terrible. Lost her husband of twenty years and no one knows why. Man didn’t have enemies. Grudges and stuff, wrongs, you hear about them in a town this small, you know?” He trails off, staring down at his feet. “It feels like a curse. A herd of sheep walking through the dark, wolves circling just outside the Sheppard’s line of sight, and every time I look away, another one gets snatched right out from underneath my nose.” The last comes out almost in a snarl and I am shocked by the vehemence suddenly coloring his words. For a brief moment, Duo looks _furious_ , almost murderous. Then he breathes, rubs at something under the collar of his shirt and smooths the wrinkles out of his forehead by force.

“Sorry about that, little too much wrath in me sometimes.”

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“It’s fine, you were there kind of, alright to be curious.”

Ok to be curious? Well, if you insist… “What were you doing? I mean, why were you out that night, when you found me?”

“I was on my way to their house, actually. Frank wanted to talk, wouldn’t say what about, not that it mattered. Now I’ll never know.” He sighs deeply, leaning forward to plant his feet more firmly, rest his elbows on his knees. “We were just a block away, you know? That thing was probably leaving their house when it found you. I can’t help but think that, if I’d just gotten there faster, I could have stopped it.”

Not the ‘everything happens for a reason’ type of response I would have expected from someone in Duo’s profession.

“It’s normal to feel that way when someone dies. To think you could have saved them. But the ‘what ifs’ don’t help anybody. Especially not you.” The words are out before I think them through, void of the usual distance I try to maintain. A normal person would have said ‘I think that’, or ‘I’ve heard’ not just... spoken like some battle-weary veteran who is used to seeing death. Damnit Trowa get a grip on yourself.

Sure enough when I glance over it’s to find Duo staring at me. I feel like he can read the thoughts right off of my forehead, like he can just summon the truth out of the depths of me and I’m starting to think it’s incredibly dangerous for me to continue being anywhere near this man. I hope in vain that Duo might just leave it alone, but of course I’m never quite that lucky. “That something you know from experience?” Well, shit.

I take a moment to make my own scan of the crowd, finding my ‘family’ milling about with the rest, each glancing over to check on me at intervals. I catch Catherine’s eye, her raised eyebrow, and gives her a small wave and a practiced smile. All good here, no rescue needed. She smirks and turns back to the small gaggle of girls surrounding her, leaving me to fight my own battle.

I take a deep breath and bite the bullet, truth a far better explanation right now than any lie would be.

“I lost my parents when I was younger.” Duo starts next to him, clearly not expecting the answer. I soldier on. “I lost all my immediate family, actually. I never really stopped blaming myself, just a little.” The silence stretches, and when I brave a look at the other man, I forget to breathe. Duo’s eyes are intense, the lines in his face cut too deeply to be simply sympathetic. He looks like someone who knows _exactly_ how that must have hurt, like he’s feeling the soul-rending pain of it even now. He clears his throat, voice rough when he asks.

“So, the Blooms?”

“Friends of the family. They adopted me right after, been with them ever since.”

“Well, that explains why you’re not Trevor Bloom.” It’s a weak attempt at lightening the mood, but I crack a small smile anyway, let us both shake off the strange fog of dark emotion trying to dig its fangs in despite the warm sun.

“So. How’d you come to be...” I trail off, at a loss for how to finish the sentence. I sweep a hand to indicate Duo, the church, the small gathering around them. Duo’s smile returns, not quite full force but approaching it, and takes pity on me.

“Eloquent.”

“Conversation is not my strong suit.” He snorts.

“You don’t say.” He tries to take my blank stare in stride, corner of his lip twitching, and finally cracks. Laughs loud enough for both of us, bright and gold and sunny again and I can’t help but smile in return, drinking it in like a thirsty flower until he calms himself again.

“Well. Without giving you my boring life story, I grew up here. Never knew my parents, was raised by the Father and Sister of the church.”

My heart turns into a lead weight as that sinks in. The fire that had burnt the building down had, according to the article, claimed the lives of the local parish and nun. The very people Duo is likely referring to now. And here I am, talking about losing my family, dragging up what is probably the very last thing he wants to be reminded of…

“Don’t make that face, you didn’t know.” He rests a hand on mine where I’m clenching my knee hard enough to turn the knuckles white, breaking my out of my mental tail spin. “I was out of state, went out to the coast to finish my schooling. When I heard about the fire, I came straight back.”

“That’s” Horrible? A lot to take on? An insane task for anyone to undertake, let alone someone so young? No wonder the townsfolk are all so impressed by him. Duo just smiles, gives my hand a final squeeze before withdrawing his own. He doesn’t seem bothered by my inability to formulate words. He just leans back in the chair next to me, seemingly content to share silent understanding.

***

The evening is crisp and cool in counterpoint to the heat of the day, full of night bugs chirruping loudly in the grass and trees as the moon slinks higher into the dark sky. I take it all in from my vantage on the porch of our secluded back yard, letting the natural cacophony provide a backdrop to the slow spiraling of my thoughts.

My parents, my past, I usually leave it all chained up tight, locked down deep with the rest of the painfully bloody memories I’ve collected. People lost, maimed, known for too short a time. Monstrous things that can never be unseen. The immutable dread lurking just inside the shadows, once you know exactly how dangerous the world can be.

Today is not the first time I’ve talked about them. Far from it. Personal experience is often the best, if not _only_ way to get through to people caught on the brink of things they cannot understand. But for some reason this time is different. The lid will not go cleanly back on the box. It won’t let itself be locked away again quite so easily.

Perhaps because Duo had looked like he understood.

Or maybe it was because Duo was currently living my worst fear.

Like me, he had lost his parents young, been raised by someone kind enough to take him in. And then he had lost them. For all the danger and ever-present possibility off death in our profession... I do not know what I would do if I lost the Blooms. Well, that is not entirely true. I would spend the rest of my life trying to kill whatever had taken them from me. I would go on hunting if I survived it. I would fight. But I doubt very much that there would be any humanity left inside of me. It is a pain I do not know if I would be able to bear.

And then there is Father Maxwell, standing tall in front of the very spot where they died, preaching about the hope and good in the world as if he truly still believed that it existed. It’s all a bit too much for me to take in.

Today, while relatively easy, has left me restless. I can’t stand to be cooped up in the house, even though I should be helping my family research. Even now they’re investigating every tiny shred of hearsay and gossip we accumulated after the sermon. I can’t even go for a walk, as much as I want to, not with the mystery beast still roaming around for unknown reasons.

My compromise brought me here, to the worn old wood of the back steps, toes pushed into the damp grass, trying to ground myself with their roots.

It’s where Catherine finds me, miserable and lost in thought.

She doesn’t say anything at first, but I can hear her toeing off her shoes to settle down beside me, digging her toes into the shaggy green and jostling mine roughly in the process. As usual, I can’t help the warm affection she drags out of me, no matter how preoccupied my mind.

“You’re kicking dirt on me.” I deadpan. She’s used to it, to breezing past my cold personality to interpret the feelings underneath.

She scoffs. “Oh please, you shoved your feet in there first you weirdo. Don’t take your shoes off if you don’t want to get dirty.” The shoulder she rams into mine is just as affectionate as the rest of her. Catherine learned early on that straightforward endearments and shows of affection just shut me down. Unsurprisingly, she’d found her own way of circumventing my defenses. The sisterly abuse is a hug in disguise and we both know I know it.

“You don’t usually get down like this.” I can feel her eyes on me, but I do not look up. “This guy must be something special for you to be so hung up after just a few days!”

“Catherine!” The direction of the conversation is so far from what I was expecting that I cannot help the outburst, and I find myself looking right into her beaming face. It is a double win for her: she gets a reaction to pull me out of myself just a bit, _and_ she gets a feel for just how true the words might be by how vehemently I respond.

I have played right into her hands, but it is far too late to do anything about it. She must read the defeat it in my face, her smile splits even wider. “You are terrible. And he’s a reverend.”

Her mouth turns down a bit at the edges, expression going more sympathetically somber. “Yea, I know, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. On the bright side, I won’t make things super awkward for our entire family by hitting on a straight man and being shunned as the only gay guy in a small town. Again.” Now it’s Catherine’s turn to look miserable.

“Tro… you’ve got to let that go. First off, you know Dad and I don’t care, which I shouldn’t have to say because there’s nothing there for anyone to care about anyway, and it was _his loss_. We should have skipped town and let them all get eaten.” I can’t help the small snort that escapes at that, the violence so out of character for her. “Besides which, we aren’t gone yet. There’s still plenty of time for you to embarrass yourself.”

“Gee thanks.”

“You’re welcome! Personally, I wouldn’t count your chickens just yet.”

I fix her with a blank look. “I have no idea what you mean by that.”

“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t write off the possibility of returned interest.”

“He. Is. A. _Preacher_.” I reiterate, trying to emphasize the point despite my normal monotone. She gives me her best ‘you are being exceptionally thick’ face in return, and her next sentence comes out slow, as if she were speaking to a small child.

“Preachers are people Trowa. The man couldn’t keep his eyes off you this morning. At all.”

“That is not even true.” I deny.

“Oh, you wanna bet? I was watching him! Every time you looked away and he could get away with it he stared _right_ at you! Not to mention the fact that, literally as soon as the sermon was over, he bee-lined straight over.” My cheeks are getting warm, and I hope the porch light behind us isn’t enough to give me away. This whole mess is embarrassing enough without adding any fuel to her fire.

“He just wanted to ask about my arm.”

“Sure.” The easy agreement makes me wary. “So, what? You guys talked about your ratty bandage for twenty minutes?” I bring a hand up to shield the half of my face uncovered by bangs and hopefully forestall her noticing the redness taking root there.

“You know what we talked about Catherine, I already told both of you.”

“Yea, my point exactly. I didn’t see him going around telling anyone _else_ his life story.”

“They already know it Cat, he grew up here.” She dismisses that with a scoff.

“Well then, tell me about the night he rescued you.” I open my mouth to remind her that I already told that story too when she cuts me off. “Oh no, not the edited version. I want to know why you were blushing like a schoolboy when you told us about it.” The nerve of this girl…

“I was not, at any point, blushing like a schoolboy.”

“So, nothing happened?”

“No, Cat, _nothing happened_.”

“You sound disappointed.” I drop the hand to look her dead in the eye, hoping to stop this madness before it can go on any longer.

“Catherine. Nothing happened. I am glad that nothing happened.” I say as deadpan as I possibly ca, which is saying something. The look on her face clearly says she isn’t buying any of it.

“Then why are you blushing now?”

“Because you are being ridiculous!” I snap, at wits end.

“Or….?” She wheedles. “You know I’ll just keep bothering you until you tell me.” I do know it. I heave a sigh deep enough to expand my shoulders and push her a little and give up.

“He caught me staring at his ass.” I mumble to the vicinity of our feet. Her ensuing giggles are not unexpected, but the reaction still causes me to turn away, a last attempt to hide the blush I know for a fact is burning all the way down my neck at this point.

“Oh my god Trowa, you are the sneakiest guy I have ever _met_ how do you suck so bad at hiding these things?! What did he _do_?”

“He just.. smirked at me.” I mumble.

“He _smirked_?!” She shrieks, and I shush her, glancing back at the conspicuously silent house, hoping Mr. Bloom isn’t eves dropping. Even if he wasn’t, that screech was probably loud enough to be heard two houses over.

“You are _insufferable_ , you know that, right?”

“Yes.” She confides, still giggling, scooting closer to worm her way in under my arm, pressing into my side to stave off the chill creeping into the air around us. “But you know it’s because I love you and I’m trying to help you, right?”

I pull her in close, pressing my check to her hair, feeling our bodies expand into one another with our breath as we watch the quiet night around us. “I know.”

***

“You missed a spot.”

I look up from my task to see Father Maxwell looming over me, all in black, with a cap this time to shade his eyes, sparkling in the shadow of the brim. I look down at the small section of new fencing (slightly crooked, but not too bad for a first attempt in my opinion), to the small can of paint I just secured the lid onto. Then back up to Duo once I’ve completed a once-over to ensure that no, I did not in fact miss any spots with the paint. His blinding smile is all the reassurance I need to know that there is no spot, never was, he’s just messing with me.

“You know, the paint brush is still wet, and I don’t think it would match your outfit very well.” I quip, gathering my small assortment of borrowed tools and standing up to face him. He has to tilt his head back to keep me in sight, and I take in the pleasant feeling of him looking slightly up at me. Just the right angle for a kiss, my brain supplies unhelpfully… I blink myself out of my momentary fixation to find him biting his lip, clearly trying not to laugh and I feel my face starting to heat and betray me, hoping the direction my thoughts were taking are not as obvious as Catherine likes to imply.

“You know, I might be slightly worried by that, except… you dropped your weapon.” And I follow his gaze down past my numb-empty fingers to the wet brush, stuck bristles up in the grass next to a small warpath of white its passage has left down the lower half of my pant leg. My skin gives up the ghost and colors all the way down to my shoulders, bare in the worn tank top I had sacrificed to the possibility of death by paint. The pants, unfortunately, I had been hoping to keep unscathed.

“Fuck.” I deadpan, and Duo promptly loses his grip on his composure, doubling over with the force of his laughter, not even bothering to be shy about it. His whole frame shakes, and by the time he manages to calm down there are tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

“Oh man, I’m sorry I shouldn’t be laughing at you, you’re doing a real nice thing, and the fence looks great.” He manages.

“It really doesn’t.”

“No, it’s,” he wheezes one last coughing laugh before bringing himself under control. “It looks good.” I fix him with flat look. “Better than when it was in pieces.” He amends, still smiling brilliantly. “You didn’t have to fix it you know, certainly wasn’t your fault that it was broken in the first place.”

“Well, I didn’t want to just leave it.”

“That paint’s not going to come out if you let it dry.” I look down mournfully, knowing he’s right and also that the walk home will take long enough that it will be bone dry. The pants are doomed.

“Come on, you can wash it out at my place, and I’ll give you a lift back. If the car starts.” I look up from my contemplation of the paint, startled. Duo’s back is to me, already walking down the street, apparently confident that I’ll follow him. Some small part of me wants to prove him wrong, but it stands zero chance against the larger part scrambling to snatch up the paint brush and stumble after him.

“You really don’t have to.” I mumble, falling into step beside him.

“Nah, I don’t but I also don’t mind. What’s some paint in the sink after having you bleed all over my kitchen?” The cap obscures most of his face, but I can hear the smile in his voice, still just teasing. My pride prickles slightly, demanding I defend myself, or at least hold my own.

“I did not ‘bleed all over your kitchen’. I didn’t even leave a spot on the floor, I checked.” To my horror, I feel my face flushing. He glances over at me, still clearly amused, his grin widening at the color spreading over my face and I feel unsettled. Like he’s a shark and I just bled in the water.

“You said ‘if the car starts,’ having trouble with it?” I ask, mostly to divert the conversation away from myself. Partly because I am curious. I am a fair hand at tinkering with cars, having spent my childhood learning how to fix the family’s various vehicles with Mr. Bloom. But that’s not why I’m asking. Certainly not to offer to take a look.

“Yeah, she’s been sputtering something awful. Hate to admit it, but I can’t quite figure it out.” I glance over and down to catch a whisper of a pout pulling his lips down and feel another piece of my sanity abandon ship.

“I could take a look at it if you want.” Fuck.

He looks surprised at that. “Really? You any good with cars?”

“I’m not bad.” I deliberately undersell myself, the small smirk hopefully conveying a level of mystery. Duo just huffs another short laugh, smile outshining the afternoon sun.

***

Hours later, I’m laying on the dusty concrete in Duo’s garage, my pant leg still damp in the humid afternoon air. To his surprise, I known more about the vehicle than Duo himself, despite the fact that he has been attempting to restore it for most of his young adulthood. I am two glasses of powdered lemonade in, grease streaked up to my elbows and having the best afternoon of my stay in Bedford. Possibly of the year.

Duo sets a third glass down next to my knee, condensation dripping down the side like a siren song, promising cool refreshment. He’s stripped down to an undershirt in the heat, the tight cords of muscle in his forearms standing out distractingly as he hands me tools, and if our fingers brush occasionally over the warm metal, well… surely it’s an accident on both our parts.

“I can’t believe you know this much about old cars.”

“I can’t believe you got this thing running, with how little you know about them.” He kicks my foot, sliding down to sit on the ground where we can just barely see each other, his own lemonade in hand. I try not to stare too hard when he tilts his head back to take a deep drink, exposing the long lines of his throat. Just my luck, his eye opens to catch me, the resulting smile allowing a trickle of liquid to escape his lips and trickle down to his shirt. I choke, try to cover it with a cough, and attempt a distraction before he can do something horrifying like comment. “How did you get her, anyway?”

Duo smirks at me as he lowers the glass, and I catch myself wondering for the tenth time today if Catherine wasn’t on to something last night after all. The look he keeps shooting me is amused, sure, but I could swear it’s anything _but_ innocent. Like he _knows_ , not just that I’m looking, but also _why_. And despite it, he has yet again approached me and invited me into his home.

Something sickeningly close to hope lights a tiny smoldering ember somewhere in my chest.

“What makes you think it’s a ‘she’?”

I shrug, the scrape of my shoulders over the rough ground giving me something to focus on, other than Duo and my own embarrassment. “Just seems right. So? Where’d you find her?”

“Father Maxwell,” he cuts off, expression pained as he seems to realize that the moniker now belongs to him, “the _late_ Father Maxwell, his friend gave it to him. Old friends of the family. Only met the man once myself. Guy was intense. Loved this car like it was a living thing, looked like it damned near killed him to give it up, still not sure why he did… but I never saw him again.”

I wipe my brow, reasonably sure I’m spreading more grease in with the sweat, and reach for the wrench resting at my elbow. Two final bolts tightened down, and I fling the tool gently towards Duo, worming my way out from under the belly of the beast. He catches my lemonade just before I topple it, hands it over once I un-pretzel myself, and I take it gratefully, downing half of it in one go.

I lower the brim to catch him staring, just as I had been. Unlike me, Duo doesn’t seem to be putting any effort into hiding it at all. I take another slow pull, just to watch him watch, the lemonade doing absolutely nothing to mitigate the heat scorching through me. I set the glass down between us. “You can start her.” I rasp out, voice rougher than I was expecting.

“Really?” He seems skeptical.

“Really.” I say, putting as much confidence as I can into it while Duo maneuvers around me to get the door open and twist the key in the ignition.

The engine roars to life with a thunderous groan, not a sound out of place, healthy as an ox. Duo whistles, leaning back in the seat and looking distinctly impressed. “I’m not gonna lie, I really didn’t think you’d be able to fix her.”

“I told you I could.”

“No, you told me you were ‘not bad’ with cars. This isn’t ‘not bad,’ this is _damn good_.” I raise my eyebrows at the curse and he grins. There is a pause, Duo considering me as he just sits there and seems to think something over. Despite the humidity, it feels like the air is charging with static, heat rising in me everywhere his eyes linger, and I feel the strange and sudden urge to run. He swings his leg out, one still near the accelerator, bracketing me between them. It feels like we are standing toe to toe across a line in the sand, perilously close to stepping over.

The look on Duo’s face say’s he knows it too, is about to cross over a threshold neither of them can return from. “The real question,” he tilts his head down, looking up at me through long lashes and I feel my heart skip, that line going up in flames. “Is how can I repay you for fixing her?”

My heart goes off like a racehorse out of the gates, and I clutch the frame of the Impala hard enough to bruise my fingers. Because this isn’t staring, or playful banter. This is pretty damn hard to misinterpret as anything but blatant flirting. A borderline invitation. My mouth drops open, though what the hell I’m supposed to say to that, I have _no idea_ , and Duo’s reaching over to kill the engine, eyes still locked with mine as he moves to stand.

I step back, one hand still clamped tight to the metal of the door like a lifeline, but it isn’t far enough, and Duo takes up too much space between me and the car, close enough I can feel the heat radiating off of him.

I must look like a fish, jaw working soundlessly as I try to think of something, _anything_ , to say. Duo’s smirk is spreading like a wildfire across his lips, dimples puckering his checks as he ducks down to stare up through his lashes again and my breath catches.

My hand leaves the safety of the car frame, reaching towards him, and it feel less like leaning in and more like I’m falling, caught in Duo’s inescapable gravity. His lashes flutter, head tilting up towards mine just as a familiar ringtone rips into the silence of the garage, and we both jump.

Freed from the hypnosis of Duo’s eyes, I swallow, running a hand through my hair to try and calm down as I search through the gathered tools for my phone. I snatch it up, swiping to answer as I register Catherine’s face on the screen, my heart pounding like a war drum in my ears.

“Catherine?” Mother of God, my voice hasn’t cracked like that since I really _was_ seventeen, what the actual fuck… I make the mistake of glancing over at Duo, who is hiding a surprised giggle in his fist, and turn away to hide the vicious blush I can feel burning across my cheeks.

“…Trowa? Are you ok?”

“I’m fine.” I spit, far more aggressively than necessary, and I can hear Duo losing the battle against his laughter behind me.

“Riiiight, sure. Where are you? Dad’s worried. You left to fix that fence hours ago.”

“I texted you when I was done.” I remind her, confused. “I let you know I was heading to Du… to Father Maxwell’s place.” The silence on the other end of the line is highly suspicious.

“That was like three hours ago Trowa.”

“I stuck around to help fix his car.”

This time I can hear a strange scraping, like Cat’s muffling the speaker against her clothing.

“Cat.” I all but growl.

“Oh my god tell me that’s a euphemism.”

“Catherine!”

“Oh my god... I… no! Dad no I got it I can… Hey!!!”

My face is hot enough I’m pretty sure it’s about to combust, and Mr. Bloom’s pragmatic voice at the other end of the line is a relief.

“Trowa, get back as soon as you can, I don’t want you out alone after dark, understood?”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good.”

The line goes dead and I stare in disbelief for a moment. For the life of me, I can’t decide if I’m glad for the rescue. By the time I turn around, the moment is well and truly broken.

Duo’s got both of our glasses in hand, ready to take them inside, and is carefully avoiding my eyes, and I wonder just how much of the other side of that conversation he overheard…

I open my mouth to ask just that, only to be cut off.

“Hey man, seriously, thank you. I never would have figured this out on my own.” He sweeps a hand to indicate the car.

“Anytime,” my voice barely even wobbles.

“Well. Since she’s running again… care for a ride?” With particular emphasis on the word ‘ride,’ and I fumble the tools I’ve been scooping up off the ground, the metal clattering loudly back to the cement.

When I manage to regain control of the stack, Duo’s already heading inside to deposit the glasses, laughter trailing in his wake. I work the tools back into their proper slots, closing the lid with a little more force than is required and wondering how, exactly, my life had turned into this much of a train wreck.

***

“So, you fixed his car?”

“Yes, Cat. I fixed his car.”

“Well that was certainly nice of you.”

I fix her with my best blank look. “Is there something you want?”

She just whistles, damn her. “Oh man, tes-ty!”

She giggles when I shove her bodily out of my room, slamming the door shut on the sound of her echoing laughter.

My mind is buzzing with activity, even after I’ve completed my nighttime rituals and firmly told myself that it is time for _sleep_ , damnit.

Twenty minutes later I’m staring bleary-eyed at the shadows on my ceiling, wondering if it might be better to give up and go bother Catherine.

All things considered; I should be exhausted after today. I spent enough time in the sun that I should be drifting off to dreamlessness. Instead, my mind is taking the silence as an opportunity to rip apart the events of the day, replaying my interactions with Duo mostly. Lingering on his lips, pulling into that damnable smirk, and I feel my heart give a miserable twinge in my chest.

How many towns have we rolled through? Never for long. Always on the move. Always would be. As soon as we manage to take care of the plague cursing this town, we will be gone. No matter what. Which means I’ll be leaving Duo behind.

Then again, wasn’t that sort of the point? No matter what happened, we would be gone after. The real question, in that case… is would I rather leave with nothing but what if’s? What would it be like to live like Catherine for once? To connect. To share something with someone, even for a short time.

To have those memories to keep with me always.

Would it be better to go on wondering what could have been? Or would it be better to know, to have it while I can, to take it with me?

In the dark seclusion of my room, I let my thoughts linger on him…

Being around Duo, the way I interact with him, it’s not an act. It is genuine. Beyond the purely physical, there’s something about Duo that just draws me in. Dangerously so. Talking to him is too easy, and already I have divulged more of my real self than I can remember sharing with… well. Anyone but Catherine, actually.

Not to mention, he feels like a giant human shaped enigma. The more I learn about him, the more questions pop up in my mind. Everything about him feels like a poorly explained juxtaposition. Young but old. Care-free but clearly responsible. Devilish, almost, despite the collar of his shirt…

Duo Maxwell does not come off as a priest, and not just because he’s, well… not straight. After this afternoon I’m sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man is interested in me, in a very physical way.

My eyes close of their own accord as I think back to that moment, when the air had hung thick and electric between us, his violet eyes dark and hungry on mine. What would have happened, if I never got that phone call?

Alone in the darkness of the room, it’s easy to wonder. To let my imagination guess at the warm tug of hands, the hot slide of muscle beneath my fingers, gripping his forearm. The taste of lemonade diluted by something more, something uniquely Duo…

A loud crash rips me from my thoughts, a different flavor of adrenaline flooding my veins as I sit up violently to face the gaping hole that had previously been my window to find a pair of unholy eyes waiting. My eyes grow wide, my heart slams against my ribs, once, twice… then curiously begins to slow.

A surreal calm begins to overtake me and this time I recognizes it for the death sentence it is. I thrash against myself mentally, but no matter how hard I throw myself against the power wrapping my mind in welcoming fog I cannot get my body to _move_.

One massive paw lands on the foot of the bed, tearing through the sheets and dragging the whole mattress forward. A hellish mouth straight from a nightmare rises above the bed to gape at me, snarling viciously, and I gaze into the rows of teeth with calm acceptance.

I do not hear the slam of the door crashing open, the gunfire as my family enters the room guns blazing. I do not register the flashes of light. Until the beast’s eyes break away from my own to toss its head to the side, I doesn’t register much of anything at all.

Then the world rushes in, suddenly, slamming into my nervous system with the force of a freight train.

The beast snarls, launching itself back out the window in a flash.

On numb limbs, I stagger to Mr. Bloom’s side near the broken hole to stare after it. The night is blindingly dark, but a flash of movement at the tree line catches my vision. A figure, strangely familiar, fades into the hazy darkness on the heels of the sprinting monstrosity.


End file.
